PS 3537 
.H55 S7 
1905 
Copy 1 



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AND OTHFB POEMS 





MIRIAI.. S 




Qass P S3537 



Book 



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Copiglit}^'^, 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



(Ulir ^pnxt-Motiitv 



AND OTHER POEMS 



By 

MIRIAM SHEFFEY 




BROADWAY PUBLISHING 
COMPANY . • . NEW YORK 



i^ ^ i^ 



LIBRARY ot CONGRESS 
Two Copies R?ceived 

NOV 21 1905 

cuss A. XXC. No 
COPY B. 






.H^ 



^'^ 



< 



Cii>yritht, 1905, 



AITRIAM SHKFKEY. 



'.' Righis Rtsierved. 



ot 

wbo 
JilkJi JBg Etle tuttlf 3Iiiu^ an& Sng 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Spirit-Mother 9 

Sleeping 13 

The Triumph 19 

Yesterday 23 

The Old Church Organ 27 

The Massage 35 

Partridges in November 41 

The Deserter 47 

My Lady. 51 

"Of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven," 55 

The Garden of the Sky 61 



Srijf ^ptrit-iin%r. 



:<7) 



By permission of the Taylor Publishing 
Company, Nashville. 

SHEAR the sound of her soft old shoes 
As she toils up the shadowy stair. 
I hear her open my chamber door, — 
Yet I know she is not there. 

I see the tears in her gentle eyes. 
The shine of her beautiful hair, 

The pitying love in her sweet old face, — 
Yet I know she is not there. 

I see the folds of her worn black gown 
As she sits in the rocking-chair. 

And lovingly, tenderly bends o'er my bed, — 
Yet I know she is not there. 

Oh, the cadences sweet of her soft old voice! 

Naught have I now to fear. 
For I feel the touch of her hand of love! — 

Yet I know she is not here. 



10 j£> £? jc? Z\)C 'iiplrlt^/l^otbcr. 

'VM.V (U'lir lilllc, poor lid It' siilVtM'inj;- one! 

JMy ]n*('cioiis! JM.v Imbv! JMy own!" 
Sh(^ is suyiii^^, — 1 hear (Ikmu, those old, old 
wo I'd s! 

Yd I know T am all aIoiu\ 



g-lrriiiMri. 



<") 



By permission of the New York Observer^ 
New York. 

^#NTO the dim old parlor 
& With bated breath I go, — 
The quaint old room whose curtained gloom 
She once did know. 

'Tis here that she was christened, 
Was loved and wooed and wed, 

And here to-night in robes of white 
She lieth dead. 

About her snowy draperies 
The pallid moon-flowers twine. 

Her little head is garlanded 
With jessamine. 

A rose sleeps in her fingers 

And lilies kiss her brow. 
Her weary life of grief and strife 

Is over now. 



14 jsf ^ ^ j^ Sleeping, 

The waxen candles' radiance 

Upon her bosom lies, 
Her shining hair, her face so fair. 

Her veiled ejes. 

Into the solemn silence 
With bleeding heart I go. 

Would I could die ! Bereft am I 
Who loved her so ! 



Yet why should there be mourning? 

Why bitter words be said 
When after years of toil and tears 

She lieth dead? 

Not dead, but only sleeping. 

A sweet and blest surprise 
For her awaits where ope the gates 

Of Paradise. 

For her, no more of weeping, 
No more of burning pain, 

No ill, no sorrow, no sad to-morrow, 
No sin or stain. 



Sleeping^ ^ ^ ^ 40 t5 

The rough and thoroy pathway 

Her patient feet have trod 
With blood is red, but it hath led 

Her up to God. 

Out from the dim old parlor 

With faltering steps I go, — 
The quaint old room whose curtained gloom 

She never more will know. 



J5I|^ ©mmplj. 



(17) 



By permission of the Christian Observer^ 
Louisville. 

^i AM so glad to die! Didst thou in 
31 truth believe 

That I should look with dread upon 
Death's coming? 
Ah, no! With jov, not fear, I do receive 

This Messenger, and like a homing 
Dove, I feel within my breast 
A hope of peace, of never-ending rest. 

I am so glad to die ! My days have been re- 
plete 
With toil and pain, regret and bitter 
weeping. 
But all will soon be past. My wearied feet 

And aching heart will find in sleeping 
Surcease from sorrow. Blessed thought! 
It is for this that I so long have fought. 



20 ^ ^ ^ Ube ^Tttumpb. 

I am so glad to die! Then wherefore 
should'st thou mourn? 
This is no time for tears, so hush thy 
crying. 
Remember all the burdens I have borne! 
Thou shouldst rejoice that I am dying. 
My little one, why be dismayed? 
It is for this that I so long have prayed. 

I am so glad to die! No more can I endure. 
In throes of struggling agony I languish. 
God knows my pain, — I trust His promise 
sure. 
No matter what may be my anguish, 
Yet still within my mind I keep 
This thought, "He giveth His beloved 
sleep." 

I am so glad to die! High up in air I hear 
An angel host in chorus sweetly singing. 
And mingling with the seraph song the 
clear, 
Pure notes of heavenly harps are ringing. 
How good, how sweet it is to die ! 
Thank God for peace ! My little one, good- 
bye! 



f^fit^rbag. 



(21) 



^HEY said that I must go awaj, beloved, 

w when you died, 

Away from the old home your life and love 
had glorified. 

They said I must not live alone in this 
house so great and grim, 

With haunted rooms and corridors all si- 
lent, sad and dim. 

They said that I must not be left to tread 
these ghostly ways, 

To mourn through desolated nights and 
desolated days. 

But only in this hallowed home can I con- 
tented be. 

This home made dear and beautiful by your 
white memory. 

These ancient rooms and passages, to others 
grim and gray. 

For me are radiant with the light and love 
of yesterday. 



Across the gloom the shining of an angel 

face I see, 
And hear, through sombre silences, a soft 

voice calling me. 

O who can know, my dearest one? O who 

can understand 
How, through the fragrant summer dusk, 

together, hand-in-hand. 
Along these sacred garden- ways we wander, 

you. and I, 
While dew-wet blossoms gently dream and 

winds go whispering by? 

One spot is holier to my heart than all the 

rest beside, — 
The bright old room, the white old room, 

the room in which you died. 
And only I can enter there! No other 

understands 
The sound of spirit-footsteps or the touch of 

spirit-hands. 

O who can understand, dear love? O how 

can others know 
That all my joy is dreaming of the joy of 

long ago? 



Slf^ (§lh (Bliurrlj ®rgatt. 



(25) 



Bj permission of the Christian Observer , 
Louisville. 

^jTAR back in the desolate basement, 
^2v Where darkling shadows lie, 
Where cobwebs white festoon the walls, 
Where human footstep seldom falls, 
Where turbulent rats hold constant sway, 
Where night is ever the same as day. 
They have left me alone to die. 

Was it yesterday that they bore me 

Down the narrow wdnding stair. 
Away from the joy, the song, the light. 
Into the misery, terror and night? 
Away from the music's melodious strain, 
Into the loneliness, yearning and pain? 
Was it then they brought me here? 



28 -^ ^ Zbc Qlt> Cburcb ©r^an. 

The hours are slow in passing! 

I lose all count of time. 
It seems like long, long weary years 
Since they hid me away in this place of 
fears. 

why was I taken from joys untold? 

P why was I brought to this prison cold, 
I, who have done no crime? 

They say I have grown old-fashioned. 

I am shabby and out of date. 
My voice is cracked and my notes ivill stick. 

1 am wornout and wheezy and stiff and sick. 
I have been fine enough in my day, so 'tis 

said. 
But in this church I never again shall be 
played ! 
O pitiless, pitiless fate! 

"Yes, old, very old," they are saying, 

And yet I feel as young. 
As ready for chant and psalm and hymn, 
For wedding gay or funeral grim, — 
As eager to lift my voice on high 
As I did on that Sabbath morn when my 

Inaugural song was sung. 



XLbe ©ID Cburcb ©rgan, jsf ^ 29 

I have been so true and faithful! 
In patience, in love I have worked. 

I have whispered of mercy to those who 
were sad. 

I have shouted for joy with those who were 
glad. 

At Christmas and Easter and Thanksgiv- 
ing time 

I have mingled my voice with the mellow 
chime. 
No service have I shirked. 



Yet yesterday I was forsaken! 

And never a tear was shed ! 
Never a soothing word they spoke 
To comfort the poor old heart they broke! 
I heard no sympathetic sigh, 
No whispered grief, no soft goodbye! 

Never a word they said! 

I am out of all sight and all hearing. 

Another has taken my place. 
Another will join with the worshipping 

throng 
In jubilant chorus, in sweet solemn song. 



30 js/ ^ ^be ®l^ Gburcb ©rcjan. 

Another of workmanship noble and fine 
With Toiee far more mighty and mellow 
than mine 
Will tell of God's wonderful grace. 

I know there is one who remembers 
My blessed, my triumphant days. 
'Tis she 'neath whose fingers so slender, so 

skilled. 
My soul was awakened, my spirit was 

thrilled. 
Together we've worked through the golden 

years. 
Together we've laughed, together shed tears. 
Together we've told His praise. 

In silence I'm waiting and longing 
For the touch of her magical hand. 

She will kiss with her fingers my yellowed 
old keys. 

And no matter how much I tremble and 
wheeze. 

By the force and the power of her glorious 
art, 

She will bring from the depths of my pul- 
sating heart 
A symphony rich and grand. 



XLbc ©ID Cburcb ©rgan. ^ ^ 3X 

Perhaps she will come to-morrow, 

My lady sweet and fair. 
Perhaps in a passion of yearning love 
She will steal away from the light above, — 
Perhaps when the service is o'er she will 

slip 
Apart from the shining crowd, and trip 

Down the narrow winding stair. 

O hasten thy coming, my lady ! 

For Death is very nigh! 
O hasten, and bring to this piteous place 
The shine of thy presence, the light of thy 

face! 
O hasten, my lady, and make me rejoice 
With the touch of thy fingers, the sound of 
thy voice. 
Just once, only once ere I die! 



®Ij^ m^aaage. 



(33) 



(To a Sprained Ankle.) 

By permission of the Christian Observer, 
Louisville. 

SHEY give you a tug and a twist, little 
foot, 
A pinch, a jerk, and a pull. 
They give you a wrench and a thrust till 
your cup 
Of tragical sorrow is full. 

You think they are needlessly harsh, little 
foot. 
You think they are cruel and mean. 
You cannot see why you should have to en- 
dure 
This pain so unbearably keen. 

Many times you have wished you were dead, 
little foot. 

In a daisy-starred grave cool and deep, 
Where your agony over forever and aye. 

You would sweetly, deliciously sleep. 



36 £/ ^ ^ ^ ^be Passage. 

Had 3^ou lungs, you would loudly protest, 
little foot. 
Had you eyes you would piteously weep, 
But, alas ! there is no way for you to make 
known 
This anguish so bitter, so deep. 



O tired little foot I Be patient and brave. 

There is always a purpose in pain. 
This fiery trial will soon end in joy, — 

Peace and comfort you surely will gain. 



For out of the shadow comes shine, little 
foot. 

And after the pain comes relief. 
Out of the evil come goodness and love. 

And gladness swift follows the grief. 



It is ever this way in all life, little foot. 

God chasteneth whom He doth love 
To make them more fit for the Kingdom of 
Heaven, 

More eager for mansions above. 



^be /iBassage, ^ ^ 4& ^ 37 

This torture to you is mysterious, strange. 

So it is with each one of God's ways. 
As through a glass darkly at present we see, 

But we shall know one of these days. 

O think then how sweet it will be, little 
foot. 

When on errands of love you can go, 
And carry glad tidings of comfort and joy 

To others in bondage and woe! 



^artriigea tn NoBPrnter. 



(39) 



By permission of the National Magazine, 
Boston. 



^.ILENTLY through the waving grass 
^V^ The little brown creatures, trembling, 

pass. 
Under the willows by the brooklet's side 
The little brown creatures, panting, hide. 
Over the fields in the dawning gray 
The little brown creatures speed away. 
Where sunbeams dance and dewdrops glis- 
ten 
The little brown creatures listen, listen! 
Where the dying goldenrod's feathers 

quiver 
The little brown creatures shake and shiver. 
Low on the grass where the leaves lie dead 
The little brown creatures go to bed. 



42 ^ j^ l!5artrfDge6 in IFlovember* 

Weary and worn they slumber, but — 
With only org of their optics shut. 

The little brown creatures are hushed with 

fear, 
For they know that danger and death are 

near. 
Death in the sunshine, death in the shadow. 
Death in the forest, death in the meadow. 
Death in the boulders, death in the bushes. 
Death in the grasses, death in the rushes. 
Death in the valley, death on the hill, 
Death in the river, death in the rill, 
Death in the rain, death in the breeze, 
Death in the flaming forest trees. 
Just how they can know is hard to tell. 
But the little brown creatures know full 

well, 
( Though they never pause to wonder why, ) 
That the hour of their doom is drawing 

nigh. 
And the little brown creatures sigh and 

grieve, 
For the world is too fair, too sweet to 

leave ! 



ipartriD^es in IRov^ember, ^ ^ 43 



11. 



Stealthily oyer field and bog 
The Enemy comes with gun and dog! 
And O, such a roar, such a tumult is heard 
That even the grand old trees are stirred! 
And the little brown creatures so timid, so 

shy, 
They tremble and scream, they flutter and 

fly- 

In the forest confusion and panic reign. 

Where was peace now is war with its hor- 
ror and pain. 

Let pitying tears be solemnly shed! 

Let a dirge be sung and a prayer be said ! 

The little brown creatures are dead, dead, 
dead! 



Stfie ^tBtxtn. 



(45) 



By permission of the Christian Observer. 
HE sun set in the gorgeous west, 



® 



I 

^ The day, reluctant, died. 

Out in the crimson evening light, 

Across the lawn so wide. 
An old man and a little maid 

Walked slowly side by side. 

High above in the summer sky 

The stars came one by one. 
And shed their light on the darkened earth 

Which mourned the absent sun. 



Sudden across the glistening dome, 

With one swift glowing ray, 
A meteor flashed. It hastened on 

To join the lifeless day. 
"O, dran'pa, see!" the child exclaimed 

"One ^tar has runned away!" 



Myi ffiaig. 



(49) 



AMONG the blossoms that she loved my 
lady lies. 
There are no marks of tears about her shad- 
owed eyes, 
No signs of toil upon the little hands that 

rest 
Like snow-white lily-blooms across her 

peaceful breast. 
Her brow gleams softly underneath her 

glistening hair. 
Xo lines of woe and agony are written 

there. 
Upon her lips so sweet, so smiling, so se- 



rene 



No touch of sadness or of suffering is seen. 

Awed by the angel-beauty of her perfect 

face 
Which bears of grief and bitterness no 

faintest trace, 



52 ^ ^ ^ ^ /IBl2 XaO^, 

Those who so deeply loved her linger at her 

side, 
And wonder, sobbing, why it was my lady 

died. 
For only Christ, the Christ of Pity, under- 
stands 
That hidden there beneath those little 

folded hands 
A pulseless heart all broken, bleeding, 

bruised and torn. 
Bears witness to the many sorrows she has 

borne. 
None but the Christ, the Christ of Tender 

Love, can feel 
The anguish she has felt, and none but 

Christ can heal. 



'Wf ^mif XB % JKtesJinm ttf ^mmnr 



(53) 



By permission of the Christian Observer, 
Louisville. 



m 



HERE lilies nod their stately heads 
And maples cast their shade, 
And where the rose its fragrance sheds, 
The little boy was laid. 



Around the cross which marks the place 

The honeysuckle vine, 
The myrtle and the clematis 

Their clinging tendrils twine. 

Beside him as he lies asleep 

The soft-eyed daisies wave. 
By night, by day, a watch they keep 

About his lonely grave. 

The joyous butterflies flit past 

On trembling gauzy wings. 
And in a bride'swreath bush nearby 

The robin sways and sings. 



50 *'®t Sucb i6 tbe IRiiiQDom of Ibcaven/' 

The crystal dewdrops sparkle there 

When comes the break of day. 
Among the myrtle leaves at noon 

The laughing sunbeams play. 

At eventide, when sets the sun, 

The tender breezes sigh, 
And o'er the hallowed spot at night 

The golden moonrays lie. 

Sometimes when I am sorrowful 

And teardrops dim my vision, 
Into my lonely yearning heart 

God sends a dream Elysian. 

And in this Heaven-sent dream I see 
A broad and shimmering river 

Whose healing waters gently flow 
Forever and forever. 

Along the sloping river-banks 
Grow God's unchanging trees. 

Celestial flowers of matchless hues 
Bend in the perfumed breeze. 



*'Qt Sucb is tbe 1R(ngDom ot Ibcavcn/' 57 

Upon the further shore I see 

A shining white-winged band, 
And One, most glorious of all, 

Holds in His Own thy hand. 



I see him lift thee in His arms. 
And on his sacred breast 

In faith, in joy, in peace, in love 
Thy little head doth rest. 

O angel-child ! On earth we faint 
In sin and darkness, while 

It is thy privilege to live 

In the sunshine of His smile! 



So sad are we ! Yet we would not 

Call thee to earth again. 
We would not have thee know the world,- 

Its sin, its grief, its pain. 

So while triumphant hosts rejoice 

And spirit-anthems ring, 
Sing on, O little angel voice, 

Thy praises to the King! 



ailfp (garbm of % S-kg. 



(59) 



By permission of the National Magazine, 
Boston. 



^HEY say I shall not live to see the 

w spring ; 

That I shall never more behold 

The beauty of my garden as bud and leaf 

unfold 
In token of a glorious blossoming. 

They say that I shall never live to see 

The radiant morns, the azure noons, 

The tender springtime twilights, the golden 

springtime moons, 
Nor hear the flashing bluebird's melody. 

No more will hyacinths their perfume 
spread. 

Or lilies of the valley wake. 

The violets and windflowers, that blos- 
somed for my sake. 

Will lift their heads in vain when I am 
dead. 



62 ^ js ^ ^be GarDen ot tbe S^i^. 

No more will peachblows blush or lilacs 

wave. 
The music of the wind and rain, 
The laughter of the sunshine I shall not 

know again 
When hidden in the darkness of my grave. 

I shall not miss this gladness when I die, 

For blossoms fine and blossoms fair, 

Of rich and fadeless splendor await my 

coming there 
Within the wondrous Garden of the Sky. 

I shall forget the bluebird's little song. 
Through heavenly spaces I shall hear 
The holy angel-anthems, too vast for mortal 

ear, 
Majestic, grand, divinely sweet and strong. 

I shall forget the sunshine laughter soon, 

The joyous beauty of the earth. 

The wind and rain of April, the Maytime 

moon and mirth. 
In that Fair Land which needs not sun and 

moon. 



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mv ;»'! t905 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

018 391 925 8 • 



